


Gravity

by mollyroll, occultisaperta



Series: occumol brainrot [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Don't copy to another site, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Marking, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Mutual Pining, Threats of Violence, Unplanned Pregnancy, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29641494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollyroll/pseuds/mollyroll, https://archiveofourown.org/users/occultisaperta/pseuds/occultisaperta
Summary: George released the arrow and the prince dodged it effortlessly, with nimble grace fit for a royal.A royal pain in the ass, more like.He had no business being that quick on his feet, or so good at survival for that matter. With a victorious whoop, His Royal Nuisance turned around on his heels and ran back into the forest, leaving George no choice but to follow.--In which the authors wanted A/B/O DNF enemies to lovers with a bun in the oven
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: occumol brainrot [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2204580
Comments: 13
Kudos: 145





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> occu and i fell headfirst into dnf brainrot
> 
> george pov is me, dream pov is occu

He jumped over a rotten log, almost losing his footing on the slippery moss. As he flailed to keep his balance, the torch he had held in hand went careening into the muddy underbrush, quickly getting snuffed out. Whatever, George didn’t need it. The storm had cleared enough that starlight was more than adequate to light his way. Ahead, a cloaked figure danced at the edge of the treeline, taunting him. Something metallic glinted in his hand, as he waved it above his head.

“Hey George!” his annoying voice spoke with too much enthusiasm, the same taunt that George had heard half a dozen times before. “Lost something?”

Without breaking eye contact, the hunter reached behind himself to grab his bow. The other man stood, unmoving and smirking, as he lined up his shot. 

“What’s up, Georgie? Cat got your tongue?” 

George wanted nothing more than to drive an arrow straight through his neck. 

When they had accepted this job, they all thought it’d be a piece of cake. How could His Royal Highness, Prince Clay be anything but a useless, impulsive, spoiled, rich brat who fled the kingdom as soon as foul play was suspected regarding his father’s untimely demise? He shouldn’t have been able to last a _day_ without coddling from his servants. 

And yet, _he had._

George released the arrow and the prince dodged it effortlessly, with nimble grace fit for a royal. 

_A royal pain in the ass_ , more like.

He had no business being that quick on his feet, or so good at survival for that matter. With a victorious _whoop, His Royal Nuisance_ turned around on his heels and ran back into the forest, leaving George no choice but to follow.

All he could think of, as he ran in hot pursuit, was the humongous fortune they would earn as soon as they surrendered this wanted criminal to the authorities. It had been months since the trio of hunters had accepted this job, and they had already burned through most of their resources. At this point in time, they really had no other alternative, if they didn’t catch the wayward prince then they’d be out on the streets. As Betas, Sapnap and Bad would be able to find odd jobs to stay afloat, but George… 

Adrenalin mixed with dread flooded his arteries as he ran harder. Omegas were considered little more than property. The mere thought of returning penniless and not being able to buy black market suppressants stirred terror deep inside his heart. Who even cared about starving or sleeping rough? If one smelled like an omega and was all alone at night, then one would be considered fair game. He had been lucky to escape unmated...

All too aware of exactly what was at stake, George followed Prince Clay deeper and deeper into the forest, further and further away from camp. Sapnap and Bad wouldn’t expect him to return for at least a week, as they had agreed to split up. If anything happened to George he was on his own. Logically it wasn’t wise to run after Prince Clay like that with no reinforcements… When they had fought in the past the Alpha had always overpowered him, much to his endless frustration. But he had stolen George’s late father’s hunting knife... _again_ , and George refused to let himself be disrespected like that. Sure, he might be playing right into the prince’s game, but he would do it knowingly for the sake of his pride. 

As insufferable as Prince Clay was, and as good as he was at making a swift getaway, one of these days he would slip and they would be ready for him.

“Why can’t we be friends, Georgie?” The prince twirled around a tree like a total nimrod as George readied another arrow. His chest was heaving hard from exertion, but he was resolute to hit his mark. “You don’t need to-”

The prince’s words cut off with a gasp when George’s arrow lodged itself in his thigh. He stumbled forward as he pulled it off his leg, for once at a loss for words. George took a tentative step towards him, reaching for the axe strapped at his hip. Prince Clay’s eyes shot up at the motion, wild with panic, and as the wet leaves squashed under George’s feet he took off running.

This time though, the playing field was leveled. This time, he was wounded. George couldn’t suppress the giddiness in his step as he gave chase. For once in his lifetime, his luck was beginning to turn. 

_Wanted, dead or alive_ the posters claimed. It looked like the former was finally becoming an option.

Prince Clay turned back to look at him, to gauge the distance between the other’s sharp axe and his royal neck. He turned back just in time to realize they were running straight towards the ravine. George only wished he could have seen the other’s face drain of blood as he realized he was caught. He stood at the edge, feet sinking into the mud, chest heaving and eyes wild as George slowly advanced on him. 

“H.Hey… hey Georgie...” Chest heaving, the prince took a shaky step backward. His hand trembled as he held the stolen knife by the blade as he offered it to its rightful owner. “You can just take it yeah? It’s okay…” A few pebbles tumbled down the steep slope and he froze. _Boxed like a fish._

George had nothing to say to him, and no intentions of making friends with a dead man. He couldn’t be bothered to decipher the calculating look the other shot him as he was all but teetering off the edge, arm extended and pointing the sharp end of the knife towards his own chest. What was going through that brain of his? Trying to escape was futile, George had undecidedly won. He had enough respect for the other man to make his death as quick and painless as possible, George wasn’t cruel. Holding firmly to his axe, he strode forward. 

All of a sudden the prince lunged at him with a feral growl, and George barely had time to react because the ground immediately gave way under their feet. The last thing he would remember as a landslide pushed them into the abyss was a firm hand taking hold of his arm, before something hit his temple hard enough to knock him unconscious.


	2. Chapter 2

Initially, it had been  _ amusing _ that there was a band of hunters chasing him. Dream was more than confident in his ability to elude their advances, and he’d been in exile long enough that  _ any _ kind of interaction was something to covet. He hadn’t counted on the tenacity of the men in question though; after a month of pursuit, he realized they weren’t going to give up.

That was when he started to really pay attention to who followed him. It was a small group -- probably to keep the divide of the bounty as low as possible. Dream was aware of the fact that he was worth  _ a lot _ . The men talked about it often enough that he would have known even without seeing the WANTED posters plastered all over the kingdom. 

There were three of them -- one called Bad, one called Sap… and then, there was George.

It was George who caught his attention; stubborn and insistent, with dark hair he kept pushing out of rich, brown eyes that pooled like black liquid when the lights were low at night. And he smelled  _ sweet.  _ Dream wasn’t sure if it was his Alpha nature kicking in, but that scent lured him in just as much -- more, maybe -- than everything else. 

After a week of the group on his tail, he couldn’t help himself; Dream made his way to their camp silently, and his eyes were full of curiosity and interest when he peeked in on George, who was sleeping by the campfire when he should have been on watch. 

That was the first night that he stole George’s hunting knife. 

The next morning, the hunter looked high and low for the blade, accused his friends of taking it, secretly dumped his sleeping bag to see if he’d lost it there… and then found it pinned to a tree the next night, high enough that his short frame couldn’t reach it without climbing. 

The expanse of exposed flesh when he stretched his arms up, jumped in an attempt to retrieve it without having to scale the bark, made something in Dream’s stomach feel  _ tight _ . He felt something just under his skin stir like a hot, moving line of velvet. He closed his eyes, shivered at the sensation, and realized that he wanted to  _ stay _ here… to keep watching the hunters.

To keep watching George.

So he started a game; sometimes it happened when George was awake, and sometimes he would sneak into the camp while they were away. Sometimes he would move so close behind him while he patrolled until he could almost reach out, almost touch the softness of his hair. But instead, he would steal the knife.

George was getting more and more irritated with his antics, and Dream’s eyes always fixated on his body when he climbed to retrieve the dagger, wherever he’d left it. 

It carried on for months, what some people might have considered a light flirtation, and others might have called harassment. Whatever it was, he didn’t feel guilty about it; they were hunting  _ him _ , after all. He was certain that George had never thought that he would turn from the predator to the prey when he started this, but Dream realized the truth.

He was hunting him just as much; his reactions, his frustration, the soft and irritated noises that spilled from his chest every time he realized that  _ someone _ had been there to tamper with his equipment. 

Mostly, though, he was hunting him for his  _ smile. _

He’d never seen anything like it, and there were times when he thought about how it would feel if that curvature of lips was just for him, if he’d done something to elicit that warmth, the flash of teeth, the crinkle of his eyes. 

He wanted it, and he could admit that it wasn’t just because he’d been in exile, starved for touch and interaction.

There was more to it than that.

He wasn’t sure what that  _ more _ was, so he stuffed the sensation away and silently swore this was mischief, fun, games. Something to do, since he couldn’t go home. 

_ He wasn’t sure if he could ever go home. _

Home was teasing George, instead; watching the boys scramble to know where he'd gone, what he was doing. He lived for the few moments that the hunter actually caught up with him, for the fights that ensued. It was all scuffle and bravado, and Dream pinning him to the ground, to a tree, tossing him to the side and disappearing back into the foliage. He lived for the moment of watching the trio of Betas  _ want _ him the way they did, ~~the way~~ ~~_ he _ ~~ ~~did~~ even if their desires were not altogether wholesome.

Dream still enjoyed his game.

For a while, that was how it played out; he would tease, he would let himself almost get caught -- occasionally, he would streak through the woods and let them catch a glimpse of the fine green shirt that he wore, linen from the castle that was worse for wear for the time he'd spent in exile. Sometimes they would pursue him together. Sometimes the group would break apart.

This time was unique, he heard Sap suggest splitting _ apart for a few days and see if we can flush him out.  _ With Bad making sure that they would  _ meet back at camp in a week. _

A week -- that meant that he had an entire week to play with George  _ on his own _ , and Dream couldn’t ignore the sensation of delight and the trill of joy that poured through his chest at the thought. 

He'd managed to get the knife again, and the giddiness of the situation was getting to him -- it was the elation that caused him to make a mistake while he was doing his usual dance and easily avoiding George’s attempts to hurt him. The pain of the arrow in his thigh was a burning thing and his visceral need to  _ survive _ was pulsing through his veins.

_ George _ had shot him. The lust for a successful hunt was painted on his features, and Dream found himself shocked that it didn't change his feelings -- the obsession was still there, seated deep somewhere in his chest and heightened by the scent of excitement and sweat rolling off of them both. It didn’t stop the swelling anger at the hunters  _ audacity _ from rippling along the surface of his body and pulling a growl from his chest. 

He had to retreat though, and he knew that ravine would be a good place to go, if he could manage to get down the side of the ledge or get George  _ to  _ the ledge. The ground was treacherous, and he knew it better than the hunter. He could find his advantage there. He wouldn’t find it trying to dart through the trees and dance out of his way -- not with the pain in his thigh a creeping thing that threatened to cut through adrenaline and scream at him to  _ stop moving.  _ So the ravine was his only option. 

_ If _ he could manage it. There was the chance that he was going to have to turn to face George. There was a part of him that wanted to lie in wait and pounce, to pay tit for tat for the wound that he’d been given… but the rest of him remembered the days that had passed by, how he’d grown  _ fond _ , attached…  _ slightly possessive _ of the one who was trying to track him down. George lacked that fondness though; it seemed like the hunter was completely serious in acquiring his bounty. 

If he had to, he could be serious, too.

When they came to the ravine and he found his back faced to the open void, he did the only thing that he could do. Dream turned around. 

He offered the knife to George, holding it by the blade; whether it was out of respect or out of a need to  _ throw _ it was something that the hunter was going to decide by way of action and reaction. The prince could behave himself when he had to. He was a good aim; the knife would land solidly in George’s shoulder if he had to throw it. It wasn’t exactly an eye for an eye, but it would make them even. He was shocked to notice his fingers shaking; was it from fear? Rage? He wasn’t sure anymore. 

He didn’t have a chance to know what the decision was -- Dream's blood was singing with the need to survive and just a little bit of hurt at the way that George was looking at him with a near savage ferocity... and then the ground beneath them shifted. 

Dream had a split second to decide if he wanted to try to dive out of the way, or do  _ something _ to help the man in front of him whose dark eyes were going wide with shock and a tinge of fear.

In the end, he’d stepped forward, his fingers clenching the blade of the knife and slicing his skin. He knew that it was those conflicting emotions in his chest that had propelled the action. It didn’t matter though -- before the loose soil completely slipped, he was able to grab hold of George and pull him against his frame. 

And then they were  _ both _ falling, and even though Dream tried to shift his body to take the brunt of it, he couldn’t stop the cascade of rocks from pelting down on them. 

George was bleeding and unconscious on the ground beside him when he roused himself; there was  _ so much _ crimson, spilling in a font from dark hair and sticking slick to the side of his face. Dream had a moment to realize that they might be in trouble. Though there were winding tunnels behind them, he wasn’t sure if any of them led  _ out _ . The span above them was caught up with rubble, pebbles -- it would be impossible to scale the wall to get  _ out _ that way. And behind them, there was nothing more than the open maw of a dark cave. There might be salvation there, but Dream wasn’t familiar enough with the area to know if that was the case. George had lost his bag and gear during the fall, so they only had the supplies that he had on his person and the knife he’d somehow managed to hold on to during their fall. 

It wasn’t much.

And George was  _ bleeding.  _

Dream moved without thinking, tearing strips from the unconscious man’s shirt to fashion bandages; he had to staunch the blood, because there wasn’t anything on hand to help him if he didn’t. It only took him a few minutes -- it was crude, but it  _ worked.  _ As an afterthought, he tore the hunter’s shirt and made a bandage for his own wounds -- George had shot him, after all, so he could at least sacrifice a little cloth on his behalf. It hadn’t  _ technically _ been his fault that Dream had cut his palm, but he lumped that in as interest on the leg wound.

Unfortunately, Dream’s lack of medical efficiency left George  _ mostly _ naked from the waist up and shivering. He smelled like blood and sweat with an undercurrent of a sweet spice that made Dream’s head spin ever-so-slightly. His fingers trailed along exposed skin, checking for wounds ~~that’s what he told himself~~ and making sure that nothing was broken. Aside from some cuts and scrapes and the headwound, he seemed to be alright. There was a moment when a flash poured through the Alpha’s mind, an ugly thought that George was defenseless and wouldn’t be able to do  _ anything _ if he brought the knife stained with his own blood out and put an end to this. 

It was a burning image in his mind, crimson and violent… and it ended in those dark eyes, staring dull and lifeless at the sky… 

It was the latter image that quelled the irritation and instead had him bringing careful fingers to smooth the hair from George’s head to double-check his bandaging.

They would talk _later_ about George’s _actual_ _attempt to kill him_ , and Dream would make sure that he had the advantage when the time for that conversation came. 

For now, he had to worry about the chill in the air and the way that George was shivering like he planned to vibrate out of his own skin.

It was just luck that the cavern they’d fallen into had runoff from water, and that runoff carried litter and branches from the forest above to the etched-out pathways below. The stream might have led to salvation if he couldn’t hear the familiar roar of the water falling down the cavern’s ledge in the distance. Dream might have been nimble, but he couldn’t scale a waterfall.

Instead, he made a fire from the nearby twigs and sticks.

He was using another strip of George’s shirt to carefully clean the blood from his face and hair when the hunter stirred. Dark lashes fluttered and nearly onyx hues stared up at him, unfocused…

And he felt something in his chest  _ catch _ ; for the first time, George was looking  _ at him.  _ Through him.  _ Into _ him. The anger that he felt for the other man wavered in a convoluted mixture of emotions that Dream didn’t know how to decipher. 

Still, his survival instinct was strong enough that he shifted, maneuvering himself to subtly pin both of George’s hands to his chest with one of his own. The other cupped his face so Dream could look him in the eyes. 

“George?” And then softer, “Georgie, you didn’t break yourself when you fell, did you?” His hands lingered for a moment on his face, and then Dream sat back on his heels, his hands almost regretfully leaving the other man’s body. 

“Prince Clay?” He sounded half dazed and out of it even as he tried to sit up, and those dark lashes fluttered for a moment as though he was going to pass out again. He watched the way that the wheels were trying to turn in George’s head, and he could  _ see _ it when they got stuck. The hunter winced in pain and laid back on the ground with a groan, “Where’s my shirt?” His voice was thick with the question, half-hidden behind chattering teeth.

Dream had the advantage here because he still had the knife, tucked in his boot and hidden away from sight. Not that it seemed like there was going to be much fighting. George was still shivering in front of him, a mess of blood and scratches. And  _ shirtless _ . 

He wanted to be cutthroat -- he probably  _ should _ have been ruthless since George had tried to kill him… but he looked so soft and vulnerable laying there. With a sigh, he stood and pulled the shirt that he wore over his head and draped it over George. It was the last remnant that he had of being  _ Prince _ Clay -- he’d been forced to run with only the clothing on his back. It didn’t matter, though; sometimes he wasn’t sure if  _ Clay  _ existed anymore. 

“It’s on your head.” He put one hand on his hip and added with a punctuated accusation, “And my leg.” As much as he wanted to tear into him for that, he leaned down instead and made sure that the fabric of the shirt was covering him completely. “You lay there and get warm.” Dream’s fingers came out almost of their own volition and smoothed a few dark strands of hair from George’s face.  _ Traitorous little bastard. ~~Handsome devil.~~ _ __ “I’ll see if I can find us something to eat.”

His eyes shifted up to the long climb to get out vertically, and then side to side to the unknown treks horizontally. Figuring out a food supply was important; there was a chance that they might be here for  _ a while. _


End file.
